The Blue Executions (9 page)

“Bob,” Courtney
began in an even tone.  “I want you to look into every civilian complaint or Internal Affairs allegation that was ever filed against Officer Long. Comprise a list of all of the complainants and what the allegation was. But most importantly, I’m sure everyone in this room is aware that Long was acquitted of a murder charge a last year. I want your office to do a thorough investigation on the family and friends of the perp that Long shot.”

“You got it, Chief.
I’ve got my men working on it already.”

Ray Santoro, the Chief of Detectives, was next.
Santoro, unlike the others, had no fear of Courtney. Aside from the fact that they’d come on the force together in the mid 1980s and had been friends for many years, Santoro was also the most competent of the Superchiefs. He didn’t need instructions to know what to do and how to do it. Courtney sat back down in his chair, glancing at Santoro.

“Ray
, it’s your men who are eventually going to break this case. I want your finest first grade Detectives to assist the detective who caught the case. Use your discretion. If the catching Detective isn’t making progress, reassign the case. I want it solved as quickly as possible.”

Courtney paused and picked up a report from in front of him.  “From reading the reports, I can see that there
were no shell casings recovered at the scene.  To me that suggests the killer must have used a revolver; there’s not a killer crazy enough to stick around and look for spent shell casings after murdering a uniformed police officer. Wouldn’t you agree, Ray?”

“Yes, I would,
Eddie,” Chief Raymond Santoro replied. He was the only one of the chiefs who would dare to call the Chief of Department by his first name. As the Chief of Detectives, Santoro was the only officer in attendance not to be wearing his uniform.  Santoro was an impeccable dresser, wearing tailored suits and fine Italian shoes.  Although the two men had the same amount of time on the job, if anyone were to look at them side by side, they would think Santoro was at least ten years Courtney’s junior.  There wasn’t a hint of gray visible anywhere in his dark brown hair.  Insiders of the department feel between his well polished looks and charisma, Santoro has the best chance of all of the Superchiefs to be the next Commissioner.  “I’ve already assigned four of the best first graders in the department to aid in the investigation.”

“It’s refreshing to see that not all of my
chiefs have to wait for instructions,” commented Courtney as he threw a glare in Heider’s direction. Courtney then focused his attention back on Santoro. “It’s my understanding that three .38 rounds have been recovered. Ray, I want you to give them a call and have every .38 revolver and every .357 revolver (since .38 bullets can be fired in a .357 revolver) recovered in this city tested for ballistic fingerprint matches. If they find a near match I want the gun retested to make a hundred percent sure it’s not the gun before we eliminate it. I want—”

“
Eddie, before you go any further,” interrupted Santoro.  He loosened his lilac and navy designer Duchamp necktie. “I think there’s something you should know; there are no ballistic fingerprints.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Courtney.
“Were the rounds too deformed to be put under a microscope?  Did the guys at ballistics screw up the evidence or something?  What exactly do you mean, Ray?”

“No, the evidence is completely intact.”

“Then, why is there no ballistic evidence? We all know every gun in the world has distinctive ballistic fingerprints after being shot—it’s impossible there are none.”

“Last night, after I heard about the murder, I took the liberty of ordering our best ballistics expert in from home.
I wanted him in particular because he’s been a first grade Detective assigned to the Ballistics Squad for almost twelve years. He’s seen it all, Eddie.”

“Get on with it, Ray,” Courtney snapped, his patience wearing thin.

“Well, this detective informs me that he’s never seen anything quite like these three spent rounds. He said there is not one bit of ballistic fingerprinting on any of them.”

“That’s impossible,” roared Courtney.
“He must’ve been drunk. Every gun in the world, even homemade zip guns, has ballistic fingerprints!  They’re imprinted on the gun as it spins from the barrel; no two are alike. ”

Santoro was confident that he knew at least as much, probably more, about
rifling
than Courtney did.  Not wanting to argue with his boss and longtime friend, “I’m only telling you what I was told, Eddie,” said Santoro, exasperated by the lecture.

“Have someone else examine them
then.”

“I already have.
Three detectives, all ballistic experts, examined the rounds this morning when they came into work. All three of them corroborate what the first detective said—no ballistic fingerprints.  There was no evidence of rifling whatsoever.”

Courtney paused, flustered, before giving his next order.

“Well, if these so-called experts can’t find any trace of fingerprints, I want the evidence sent to the FBI’s forensics lab forthwith. Let them take a look at it. Maybe their high-tech equipment can find what ours can’t,” Courtney ordered, beginning to pace the floor again.

The tension in the room thickened
until there was an abrupt knock at the door. Courtney’s eyes narrowed, as if he were about to size up the enemy. Everyone in the room breathed a collected sigh of relief as it was apparent that whoever was on the other side of the door would be on the receiving end of Courtney’s wrath. This would get them off the hook, at least temporarily. Courtney opened the door, revealing an Inspector in uniform. The Inspector appeared nervous at having to interrupt the meeting. A couple of the men in the room recognized the Inspector—he generally served as Courtney’s right-hand man.

“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstances?”

The Inspector quickly whispered his explanation to Courtney, who immediately questioned him.

“What specifically did he tell you?

The Inspector leaned in and whispered into Courtney’s ear, shielding his body from the others in attendance.

S
how him in,” Courtney said before turning to address the chiefs. “There’s a reporter outside who tells Inspector Finch that he may have a lead on Police Officer Long’s murder. He wouldn’t tell him any more than that. He insisted on speaking directly to me.”

There was another knock at the door.
Upon Chief Courtney’s invitation, the door opened and the Inspector entered with a second male. He was a medium-framed man with tight, curly brown hair and a mustache to match. He wore a grey sports jacket over a white shirt and red tie. He carried a black attaché case in his left hand and promptly introduced himself to the Chief of the Department.  The Inspector excused himself and Brian McGregor was invited to take a seat at the conference table.  After McGregor occupied a previously vacant spot at the table, he was formally introduced to all the chiefs by Chief Courtney. It was worth noting that in the presence of outsiders—especially the media—Courtney appeared completely genial, unlike the tyrant that he actually was.

“So, Mr. McGregor, I understand that you know something about the assassination of Officer Long
which you feel may be of assistance.”

“Yes, Chief.
I believe I do. But…I did want to speak to you in private.”

“Mr. McGregor, I assure you—anything you can say to me is trusted with all of these men.
These are the top men in the entire Police Department and they were all hand-picked and trusted by the Commissioner.”

“Very well, then,” began McGregor as he opened his attaché.
He was careful to put on plastic gloves that were inside. He then removed a letter and an envelope. He read the contents of the letter to all at the table. The men at the table listened intently to McGregor’s every word. They met the letter with mixed emotions—if it were genuine, they now had a lead on the investigation, but that would also guarantee at least another attempted murder on the madman’s part. The very idea of it instilled fear into the hearts of every man present—after all, regardless of rank, they were all cops. Most importantly, this legitimized the urgency for a swift arrest in the case.

McGregor concluded reading the letter to the top echelon of the police department.
He then put the letter down and removed the rubber gloves. He stared momentarily at his captivated audience. He then focused on Chief of Department Eddie Courtney.

“I wouldn’t waste your time if I didn’t believe this was legitimate.
In the mail room, I receive hundreds of letters a week. Many of them are pranks. I don’t think this one is. I have an eerie feeling that whoever wrote me this letter is the killer.” McGregor paused, licking his lips. “I have no idea how many people handled the envelope, but I assure you as soon as I opened it and realized it might be legitimate, I’ve handled it only while wearing gloves. I’ve also made sure no one else touched it. So, if there are any fingerprints on it—other than my own—it may be the killer.”

“Good thinking, McGregor.
How many copies of this are floating around?” asked Courtney.

“This is the only one.
I didn’t make any copies.  I was afraid the copier machine could destroy any fingerprints if I tried to make a copy.  I did take a picture with my cell phone but nobody else—not even my editor—knows about it”

“I wish more of my detectives thought like you,” said Courtney through a forced smile. “Would you mind if I had one of my detectives fingerprint you, Mr. McGregor?
This way, we can eliminate your fingerprints from any others we find on the letter.”

“Of course not, Chief.
I’m just glad to help.”

“Thank you.
We appreciate this,” Courtney said before motioning to his Chief of Detectives. “Ray, why don’t you have Mr. McGregor taken downstairs to be fingerprinted and have someone from Major Case sent up to dust the envelope and letter for latent prints.”

Santoro picked up
one of the many telephones on the conference table and complied with his orders. Inspector Finch walked back into the office to escort the reporter downstairs. The two men walked out of the office when McGregor suddenly stopped.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said.
“I need the letter back after you’ve dusted it so I can make the deadline for the early edition of the paper tonight.”

“You can’t print this letter, Mr. McGregor.
I don’t want to start any unnecessary panic among the public,” argued Courtney. The two men debated their respective points of view for about ten minutes before reaching an agreement. They ultimately agreed that McGregor would keep the story under his hat for the time being and when the story did break, he would get the exclusive story, including an interview with the detective who solved it. It was highly irregular to promise any reporter an exclusive interview, but Courtney knew this reporter had him over a barrel. If push came to shove, Courtney had no legal grounds to prevent McGregor from printing anything he wanted, including the letter. Courtney shook McGregor’s hand and thanks him for his cooperation as the Inspector showed McGregor out. After the door closed, Courtney sat back down at the table.

“Goddamn reporters!” Courtney said to no one in particular.
He was used to being the one to call the shots and making deals meant compromise—something he hadn’t done in years. He stared down at the letter as it lay on the conference table. He was careful not to touch it as he silently read the words. He shook his head as he looked up at his men.

“
The Blue Executioner
. Gentlemen, I have a real bad feeling about this. We’ve got to get this guy—and quickly. I’m going to inform the Commissioner about this right away. Counting him, there will be only the handful of us who will know about this letter. If there are any leaks to the press about this…I promise you that I will find out the source of the leak and have him demoted back down to the rank of Captain before he knows what hit him. Is that understood?” His voice had been stern, but softened. “The last thing we need is for the press to learn that we may have a serial cop-killer running around out there.”

Each man in the conference room sat in disturbing silence, occasionally gazing at one another as the implications of a serial cop-killer sank in.
“God forbid it,” was whispered in the barely-audible voice of one of New York City’s top police chiefs.

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C
hapter 6

Almost a month had gone by since Underhill had
executed the first of what he was sure would be many corrupt police officers. It was also almost a month since he’d mailed the letter announcing his presence to the NYPD and Brian McGregor. Underhill’s patience was wearing thin as he was sure he had informed the reporter that it’d be okay to print the letter. Yet, every morning when he opened his newspaper, it had yet to appear. Even his column on-line had failed to mention anything about the blue executioner.  The only logical explanation would be that McGregor had never gotten the letter—unless of course, McGregor had thought it was a prank.
That must be it
.  That oversight would surely be corrected after the reporter receives his next letter—where he will take responsibility for the murder of Police Officer Christopher Tatum in the name of the Blue Executioner.